I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted from living at the intersection of Rage and Sadness and not being able to do anything about it.

To be clear, I never once —ever — considered hurting a real person or thing. What I wanted was a world where I was untouchable, where I could find solace in my own kind of Fortress of Solitude. In real life, we can’t ever really escape away from everything whenever we want, or even need. Grand Theft Auto III gave that to me. It let me play God. That violent video game provided me with the one thing I could never have otherwise — total control.

• Every time I meet with a recruiter, I feel as if they’re sizing me up for how they can best exploit my talent for their financial gain. The next time I meet with one, I’m going to blast out a sonic-rattling fart then let its heat and stench consume the oxygen in the room before breaking the tension with, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

I’m a child of the ‘80s. I grew up during the Cold War in the warm embrace of America’s beautifully violent and heroic narrative. Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Willis, He-Man… I used to think that Batman was a pussy because he wore kevlar. Rambo essentially rewrote history by winning the Vietnam War shirtless. And he blew up a helicopter gun ship with a bow and arrow. But I always knew this was bullshit. Hollywood. I may have fantasized about saving my school or my family or an office building from terrorists with weapons but I always knew that actually doing so was pure imagination.

• Too many people think Red Dawn and Die Hard are documentaries.